


Horizon Man

by bongbingbong



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series, Star Trek: The Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Autistic Leonard "Bones" McCoy, Autistic meltdowns, Bones just needs some ding dang diggity lovin, Fal-tor-pan, He does so much in the movieverse and NOBODY APPRECIATES IT, M/M, Star Trek III: The Search for Spock, Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:53:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27415303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bongbingbong/pseuds/bongbingbong
Summary: Bones carries Spock's Katra through all the events of Search for Spock. He willingly goes into a dangerous procedure to save his friend. He's there to support Jim and Spock every step of the way, but in those films nobody ever seems to spare a thought for what their too-kind Doctor McCoy is going through. This is a bit of a fix-it for exactly that, feat. autistic Bones as per my headcanon!
Relationships: James T. Kirk/Leonard "Bones" McCoy/Spock, Leonard "Bones" McCoy/Spock
Comments: 27
Kudos: 127





	Horizon Man

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from an old Hall and Oates interview where Oates was asked if he ever felt any resentment for allowing Hall to take the spotlight all the time, and he said something along the lines of -  
> "Together we're like a beautiful sunrise - Hall is the sun, but you can't have all those colours without the horizon" and honestly that reminded me of Bones a lot.
> 
> Also thanks to [upset_and_confused](https://archiveofourown.org/users/upset_and_confused/pseuds/upset_and_confused) for many yelled conversations on this topic, love u

He had expected the fal-tor-pan to be a careful procedure, the untangling of the fragile threads of his and Spock’s souls. Instead it was brutal, like being thrown to the ground and shattered, the pieces being sorted, swept up and thrown back into his brain like so much garbage. His and Spock’s souls scraped against each other like jagged edges, and although he was not aware enough to note the passing of time, he was aware enough to feel the needle-like pinpricks of pain threatening to puncture his sanity. He did not know if his physical body reacted, though through the whole thing his mind cried out in fear and in pain. 

When he regained consciousness, his eyes and cheeks were damp. If he had vocalised anything, he could not tell from the stony faces of the vulcans around him. They were attending to T’Lar first, helping her stagger slowly back to her sedan chair. McCoy took a deep breath, and took note of his physical condition. He felt... empty, the continuous presence that had crowded the fringes of his conscious mind now strangely absent. In the moment, he knew who he was, why he was here, and who the people outside were waiting for him. Spock. Jim. The Enterprise. But beyond that, the edges of his fractured consciousness seemed to struggle to fit together naturally, and he felt odd, like he’d been taken apart and put back together incorrectly. 

Brown robes. Sarek was standing in front of him, his hands hidden in his sleeves. McCoy rolled onto his side, then slowly pushed himself upright. His clothes clung to him with sweat, and he tensed against the sensation. 

“Do you require assistance, Doctor?” said Sarek. McCoy waved him off, though it felt like an effort even to raise his arm. Sarek hovered, clearly not convinced.

“I will see you to your friends. I expect they will be eager to know of your wellbeing.”

“What about Spock?”

Sarek looked over to where the white-robed attendants were helping him sit up.

“Only time will tell, Doctor,” he said, his features inscrutable. Unexpectedly, Sarek took him by the elbow and helped him to stand. McCoy swayed for a moment, his equilibrium thrown off balance again by the absence of Spock. He felt unnaturally light, like Spock’s katra had contributed a physical as well as a mental weight to his person. Perhaps it had. He still didn’t really understand how any of this Vulcan mysticism worked.

Sarek led him slowly back to the others, guiding him down the stairs. Kirk and the others had risen to greet him, and he summoned the strength to reassure them he was okay. He was tired, too tired to try and arrange his facial features into something resembling an expression for their sake. They’d understand, they had to by now.

“I’m alright, Jim.” 

Except Jim wasn’t looking at him. He was looking past him, upwards at the altar - at Spock. McCoy’s eyes shuttered and he gingerly pried his arm from Sarek’s grip, getting out of the way so Kirk could see the miracle that had hopefully just occurred. Surely it had worked. Spock was definitely not in his brain anymore, so he had to be somewhere. Faintly, he chastised himself for his apathy in the face of such an important moment, but he felt wrung dry of everything, including emotion.

Or so he thought, until Spock came to them, unprompted, and walked past all of them… straight to Jim. He remembered Jim. That was something. It made sense - Jim had been the last person he’d seen before he’d died, McCoy had made sure of that. Had made sure they got a chance to say goodbye, even after he’d spent the past few minutes screaming himself hoarse, pounding on the glass chamber walls at a Spock who had resolutely ignored him in favour of saving the ship. 

Spock looked over at the rest of them. Scotty, Uhura, Chekov, Sulu - then himself, and for the moment their eyes met he warmed a little, tapping his finger to his temple.

_ I carried you, Spock. And I would do it again. _

Spock looked taken aback, his eyes vacant and unfamiliar, and McCoy firmly pushed down the sick feeling that bubbled up in his throat. At least he was alive. It was a start. He had to believe it was a start.

As the others crowded around Spock, he stayed out of the way then too, letting them have their moment to greet him. He forced a wavering smile onto his lips as he hung at the back of the group. Spock was alive. The thought didn’t warm him like it should have; instead, despair dug its claws into him out of nowhere, dragging him down.

He didn’t realise he’d been scratching at his wrists until the attendants politely came to guide Spock back to their facilities for rehabilitation. 

*

Bones worked on the ship, the newly-christened HMS Bounty. It was the only thing he knew to do, while they waited for Spock to complete his recovery. The meld had been mostly successful - mostly being the operative word, where he was concerned. There were still lingering echoes of each other in their minds. It would take time to fully clear them out, return each soul to its rightful owner. 

He had follow-up sessions with Spock to make sure of this. Jim lightly teased him for them, doing a very poor job of concealing the fact that he was jealous of the extra time McCoy got with Spock. Once, McCoy tried to explain that he barely got to see Spock before the sessions, let alone speak to him. And afterwards - well, afterwards he was so exhausted he could barely move. He always found himself carried back to his temporary quarters in a stranger’s arms.

When they landed back in the twenty-third century, this thought crossed his mind as he watched Spock and Kirk cling to each other, only for Kirk to throw the both of them into the water. The two of them never let go.

*

Coming down from the adrenaline, the sheer elation at George and Gracie saying goodbye, was like a crash that felt like it was crushing his very bones under its weight. Time was a difficult concept to keep track of when you’d been bouncing around centuries, but he knew he’d been awake for too long. They all had - well, except for Chekov, who had been unconscious overnight. Oh - he had been unconscious, hadn’t he?

“Chekov,” said McCoy, his voice slurred with the sudden weariness that had enveloped him, “lemme just check your pupils,”

“They have medics on the transport Doctor, they have already given me all the checks,” said Chekov, giving him a tired smile. McCoy sat back, and immediately recoiled at the sensation of his wet clothes being pressed into his back. All at once, the cold hit him. His clothes and hair were drenched, and they were all wet and shivering, despite the relatively warm interior of the transport. Spock’s lips were pale and bloodless, given he was much more sensitive than the rest of them to drops in the temperature. One of the crew members had gone to get them blankets and towels.

“You need to get out of those wet clothes,” he said, pushing himself out of his seat with considerable effort. Spock was tired too, listing further and further to the side, but he snapped to attention as McCoy approached.

“I assure you Doctor, that will not be necessary. Our transport will arrive at Starfleet Headquarters soon, and I will be able to warm myself adequately there.”

Of course he wouldn’t want to risk his privacy for something as trivial as  _ staying alive _ . A flutter of fear ignited in his chest, but he ignored it.

“Bones,” said Kirk softly, “come sit down. It’s going to be okay.”

His voice was low. Soothing. He was trying to be reassuring. Was something wrong? The part of McCoy that listened and the part of him that reacted were separating into two different entities. The part that listened heard Jim’s words as the familiar comfort that they were. The part that reacted suddenly knew that without a doubt they were in danger - they were always in danger, and even now, it was all around, waiting for - waiting for what? 

McCoy’s heart began to hammer in his chest, he could feel himself growing hot. Fever? Unlikely - what of the others? They would be ill after this, undoubtedly, back in the old days they used to say “catch your death” - such a morbid phrase for a reasonably innocuous disease, if you got a cold. But then again back then maybe a cold could kill you. 

“Bones.”

He heard it. He heard it, and he listened, but he was reacting to something else entirely.

A hand landed on his wrist and he pulled away. Kirk’s concerned features swam into view. His clothes were wet. His clothes were wet, and they were cold and they chafed and they clung to his skin and he wasn’t sure how much more his senses could take before he went completely-

“Bones?”

He gulped in a breath, then another one. A shiver rattled him from the inside. He felt so empty, like all the strength had drained from him - hyper-awareness of his physical state battered at his mind, leaving no space for coherent thought. He was hungry. Kirk had brought a pizza, but he’d been nervous, nauseous-

“Bones!”

Kirk had him by the shoulders, and all the thoughts condensed back down into a tiny, compact ball of concentrated pain. All he could manage in response was an inarticulate cry as he batted Kirk’s hands away. A small part of him, a part that still clung to the tatters of his sanity, turned inwards with shame. Jim would be horrified, they all would be. This would be the end of their friendship, the end of his time-

Jim was being hauled backwards - Spock was there. He’d made Spock move - Spock was cold, as tired as he was, still recovering-

“S’ry,” he mumbled, and then his mind wrenched him in another direction and he could no longer remember why he was apologising.

“Doctor McCoy, I believe you are having a meltdown,” said Spock’s voice. McCoy heard the words, but the part of his brain that translated them into meaning wasn’t working. McCoy threaded his hands through his hair and twisted. A whimper escaped him, and he hated himself even more. He curled his hand into a fist and knocked it into his head, needing something, anything to shove everything back into working order.

“Doctor-” there was a note of concern in Spock’s bitten off exclamation. He’d finally gotten a reaction out of the Vulcan. McCoy gave a slightly hysterical giggle, and then bit down hard on his hand. He would not scream. He would not cry. He was making an absolute ass of himself in front of his friends, but he barely felt human enough to care past the tangle of everything else that was threatening to overwhelm him. 

“How long until we arrive?” 

Kirk’s voice. He sounded angry. Someone stammered a reply that didn’t seem to satisfy him.

“Doctor McCoy.”

His name. Spoken by Spock. 

“Doctor McCoy. Listen to the sound of my voice. I know you can hear me. All you have to do is listen. Can you do that?”

McCoy began to shake with dry sobs. The transport had gone silent, and shame flooded him. Now everyone knew what a mess he was. And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

“Doctor McCoy, you have to listen to the sound of my voice. In a moment, I am going to drape some blankets on top of you. I will not touch you. Just the blankets.”

Spock paused to check whether McCoy had heard. 

“Doctor McCoy, if you are amenable, flex your hand.”

Was he okay with a blanket? He was freezing. His thoughts were a jumbled mess, but he imagined the sensation of a blanket being put on top of him. The weight. The darkness. He could hide. He flexed his hand.

“Good, thank you Doctor McCoy,” said Spock, and McCoy did not miss the slight tremble to his voice. A blanket was draped over him, and then another, and then another and then another. They were heavy, and McCoy settled under the weight of them. He was still wet and itchy, but the sensation was starting to feel different now, like it was happening to somebody else, and he was merely an observer. McCoy dragged the blankets over his head, and sat in the dark. It was stuffy, but it was better than facing everyone else. He relegated that to a problem for later, and let himself float. Everything else outside the warm, slightly scratchy, Starfleet-issue wall was too much to deal with.

*

Kirk and Spock sat together, as close to Bones as they dared go, and watched the trembling mound of blankets as the transport finally came to a halt. One of the medics came to retrieve the doctor, but Kirk stood up smoothly in front of her.

“Thanks, but we’ll take it from here,” he said. His tone allowed for no argument. The young woman nodded briefly, then handed him a security chip.

“There’s instructions there on how to get to your temporary quarters. Fleet Admiral Cartwright requires you for a debriefing at 0800 hours.”

“What time is it now?” said Kirk.

“0700. You’ll appreciate that given the circumstances there are a number of pressing matters at hand.”

Kirk pressed his lips together to stop himself from berating the poor officer who was just doing her job. He would have to take it up with Cartwright.

“Thank you,” he said instead, “we can manage.”

Looking over at Spock guiding a glassy-eyed Bones to stand, he silently prayed that whatever higher power out there would not call his bluff.

*

They led Bones to the temporary quarters they had been assigned, and Kirk tried his best to squash the terrible guilt that weighed on him at how fragile the other man suddenly seemed. He shuffled along behind Spock, his head bowed, his hair in damp, tangled strands now crusted over with salt. Kirk felt disgusting too; his uniform chafed at him, and he was beginning to shiver again now that they were out of the warmth of the transport. 

A memory floated through his mind unbidden - he and Bones getting ready in his quarters on the Enterprise. Bones stretching and rolling his shoulders, tugging at his collar like he was struggling to breathe. Bones, the time Starfleet had tried to introduce that awful uniform-issue scrub top that had made every movement that drew the fabric over his skin a kind of slow torture, so bad that he’d found the poor man weeping silently in his office. The image was distant - it felt like it had happened in another time, to another person. Despite their close proximity these past few weeks, he had been away from his friends for too long.

Bones’ steps were beginning to falter. He weaved from side to side, so weary he seemed to be moments from folding to the ground. 

“Doctor,” said Spock. His voice was hoarse.

Bones stopped, and Spock took the opportunity to hook one arm under his knees and scoop him up. Bones was quiet and obedient, and that part frightened Kirk the most. He’d never seen him like this before. He’d seen him come close, during their five year mission together, had seen him collapse from exhaustion, cry, shout, fall mute from sensory overload - hell, he’d held Bones in a darkened room, whispering softly as he tried to keep him from shaking out of his skin. But in all those memories, he and Spock had managed to get there in time. This time, something had tipped him over the edge. 

It didn’t make sense. Had something happened to him while they’d been searching for the whales? Did he and Scotty run into some trouble that they hadn’t taken notice of? 

Bones was like a rag doll when they set him down on his bed. It took very little effort to guide his limbs into place, and Kirk worried at the bluish tinge in his lips, the pale, papery cast of his skin. 

Kirk undressed him while Spock went to run a bath. All this they did in silence; Jim told himself that it was for Bones’ sake, that noise and interaction would overwhelm him right now. He was right, of course, but truthfully, it was also that the enormity of the question right now that robbed him of his words. What had happened to Bones? 

When he had Bones down to his underwear, the poor man silent and motionless save for the fact that he was shivering, Kirk got a towel and did his best to rub some warmth back into his chilled skin. Bones had his gaze fixed on some unidentifiable point in the distance. He was pliant when Spock came back, dressed in a dry uniform undershirt and trousers. Apparently, Starfleet command hadn’t been kidding when they said they were expected to debrief in an hour - their clothes had all been laid out for them in the bathroom, in neat piles. Kirk got himself dry while Spock took over.

Once he had been led into the bathroom, Bones seemed to recover some of his awareness, as he peered at Spock.

_ You. Cold?  _ He signed, his movements stiff and halting.

Spock shook his head, and guided Bones’ hand to feel the fabric of his shoulder.

_ Warm. Dry _ . Spock replied in kind. 

This seemed to satisfy Bones, who nodded and allowed Spock to help him into the bath. He sank into the hot water with a little sigh, and immediately his eyes drifted closed. Spock had added something to the water, something faintly sweet that smelled of wildflowers. It was pleasant, and made him feel a little more grounded. 

For a while, Bones let himself float. Outside of awareness, outside of anything that could hurt him, he let himself simply exist in the unmoored space his mind had carved out for him in the moment. Somewhere there stayed a niggling feeling, a faint knowledge that he had to come back to himself at some point. But the effort of clawing his way back to reality seemed insurmountable right now. Here there was warmth seeping slowly back into his chilled limbs. His eyes were closed. Time stretched around him into an indeterminate mass, so that he couldn’t tell where he was anymore, or how long he had been there. The confusion was comforting, and he savoured it, because beneath it all lay coiled a tension that threatened to snap him back to the present like a rubber band.

“Your hair contains salts and other impurities from the seawater we landed in.”

Bones heard the sentence, spoken in Spock’s familiar voice, but the meaning of them didn’t register. He tried to will his voice into replying, but he was still too far away.

“Doctor, would you allow me to wash your hair?”

The words still weren’t quite there, but they conjured up a faint impression of comfort. Bones nodded.

Cool fingers slid over his scalp, carding through his damp hair. They massaged shampoo in, rubbing gentle circles at his temples, behind his ears, at the back of his head. Spock knew what he was doing. They had done this before. The sense memory gently guided Bones back to the present, and he found himself drifting back into reality. 

“Doctor,” replied Spock, and his voice was different now. It was familiar again, that old, tentative note of warmth creeping back into its cadence. Spock was remembering - not just the facts, not just Jim, but he was remembering  _ them _ . 

The rubber band snapped, and Bones found that he was sitting in a bathtub in some temporary Starfleet quarters, and he was trembling. Not from the water, which was still warm (had he not been sitting here for longer?) but from the sudden barrage of reality that slammed into him. All at once, the events of the last few months hit him with their full force. Seeing Spock again. Losing him. Carrying him. Getting him back - and then realising he might be losing him for a second time. But now?

Bones’ hands grasped uselessly at the bathwater as his breathing began to quicken. His brain was trying to process it all, but he was so  _ tired- _

He didn’t realise he was crying until Jim was suddenly there too, the three of them squashed into the too-small bathroom, frantic and terrified and at a loss for what to do or even what to say.

“Doctor,” Spock said again.

Bones drew his knees up to his chest and wept into his hands, his body convulsing with silent sobs that threatened to shake him to pieces. Spock’s hand lingered at the back of his neck, but then Spock turned to Jim and Bones couldn’t stop the soft whine that escaped his throat.

“Jim,” said Spock, his voice low and grave, “do you have access to Doctor McCoy’s recovery plan?”

Kirk blinked.

“Recovery plan?”

“Yes, his recovery plan. I believe his current emotional distress may be to do with the lingering effects of our mind meld. The healers on Vulcan would have issued him with instructions on how to proceed.”

“The healers?” said Kirk faintly. A vague understanding of what was going on here was beginning to coalesce, and it left him feeling cold and sick with guilt.

Spock was silent for several moments.

“Jim,” he said. His voice was edged with steel.

“Spock, I-”

“Whose care was Doctor McCoy under after he underwent the fal-tor-pan?”

Kirk felt his insides clench as he gazed, mortified, at his dear friend still crying in the bathtub. Spock found the answer to his question in Kirk’s silence, and for a moment his control slipped, and his eyes flashed with anger. He turned back to Bones, who drew in a long, shuddering breath. He placed his hand hesitantly on the back of his neck, and squeezed the tense muscles there. But it was too little, too late, and Bones began to cry - if possible - even harder, his hands scrabbling at his hair for something to hold on to. 

“Doctor,” said Spock, “you require rest before you can begin to heal.”

An inarticulate noise tore from Bones’ throat, an angry close-mouthed scream of frustration.

“I can make you sleep. Will you permit this?”

Bones sucked in several breaths, then with some effort, signed  _ yes _ , and then  _ please _ .

Spock’s was careful, but firm. Bones’ head slumped back into his hands before he knew what was happening.

*

An apology - when his friend was well enough to hear it, seemed like it would be too little. Spock had attended to Bones on his own, keeping his back pointedly turned to Kirk until he got the hint and retreated. Cartwright had been called, the debrief postponed. Kirk suspected it had been something in the barely concealed terror in his voice that had sealed that deal. They had also called for sleeping clothes, which were alarmingly swift in their arrival. Before long, Bones was tucked safely into the one large bed in the main room, clad in a grey t-shirt and soft sleeping pants. He was curled on his side, his hands tucked in close to his chest. Asleep and relaxed, there was none of the tension and intensity that usually rendered him such a formidable doctor. Instead, he looked small. He had always been slighter than himself or Spock, but now without the veneer of abrasive confidence he usually tried to project, Kirk realised that he was thinner than he remembered. Fragile.

Spock turned to face him.

“Jim,” he said, but Kirk interrupted.

“I know,” he replied, “I know, I’m sorry but you’d just died and come back, and it’s been so long I just forgot how he-”

Spock cut him off with a raised hand.

“You will care for him now,” he said. 

Kirk nodded, swallowing down the guilt that was threatening to overwhelm him. Despite his intentions or lack thereof, what had happened had happened, and now Bones was hurt. He climbed into bed behind his sleeping friend, placing one hand on his waist to pull him close. Bones shifted slightly in his sleep, and let out a soft sigh as Kirk rested his forehead against his shoulder. On Bones’ other side, Spock arranged himself at Bones’ front, so that he was surrounded on both sides. 

Kirk closed his eyes, feeling the solid weight of Bones against him, and a surge of fierce protectiveness engulfed him. He wouldn’t let this happen again. He wouldn’t let anything like this happen. He would fix things - he would… he would take them both on shore leave. Take some time away, get to know each other again, as intimately as they had aboard the first Enterprise.

At the edge of his mind, Kirk could feel the discomfort radiating from Spock. He opened his eyes, and found the Vulcan lying awkwardly on his side. He seemed unsure of what to do with his hands, which were folded across his chest like Count Dracula.

Silently, Kirk reached over Bones and took one of his hands, and lay it down on Bones’ hip. He covered it with his own, and took some small pleasure in seeing Spock visibly relax. The three of them were still trying to feel their way around how they fit together, and he was sure the arm he was lying on was going to go numb sooner rather than later. But it was a start, and for now, at least Bones was warm and safe - and most importantly, among people who loved him.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Horizon Man](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27829333) by [AsAlways](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AsAlways/pseuds/AsAlways)




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